


bravado

by below_the_starry_clusters_bright



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Neighbors AU, Prompts Welcome, basically just all meet-cutes, boss/employee dynamic, coffee shop AU, delayed flight, unusually strong feelings about tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2018-10-24 07:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10736934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/below_the_starry_clusters_bright/pseuds/below_the_starry_clusters_bright
Summary: -Non-related oneshot series-“I don’t understand,” Rey says finally. “So you don’t want a hot chocolate?”“No, I do,” the man says, growing more visibly frustrated by the second. He throws a glance over his shoulder to where his companions sit. “Can you just – call it something different?”“What, like Frank?”It’s a good thing Rey knows she’s hilarious, because the man’s glare could bring all the iced Americanos in front of her to a boil.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, welcome to my series of oneshots. I’ve been trawling tumblr for prompts. Feel free to add your own! The series will be pretty light-hearted and will update regularly. Enjoy!
> 
> This prompt by tumblr user authorkurikuri on the “spice up those coffee shops AUs” post: i love hot chocolate So Much but it’s embarrassing to be the adult ordering hot chocolate at a coffee shop, so do you think you could announce it’s a different drink when you’re giving it to me??

* * *

 

 “I don’t understand,” Rey says finally. “So you _don’t_ want a hot chocolate?”  
  
 “No, I _do_ ,” the man says, growing more visibly frustrated by the second. He throws a glance over his shoulder to where his companions sit. “Can you just – call it something different?”  
  
 “What, like Frank?”  
  
 It’s a good thing Rey knows she’s hilarious, because the man’s glare could bring all the iced Americanos in front of her to a boil.  
  
 “Like, an espresso,” the man corrects through gritted teeth.  
  
 Rey glances back at the screen listing the order. “Giving you an espresso in a large cup is going to look like I don’t know what I’m doing. Or that I have a vendetta against trees.”  
  
 The man rolls his eyes. “I’ll personally plant a tree in your name if you’re worried about your environmental reputation.”  
  
 Rey holds back a snort. Sure, _she’s_ the one worried about her reputation. Businessmen in tailored suits like his usually order enough espressos to power them through their next three meetings, with the added benefit of being able to identify colors and sounds in another dimension. They put away more caffeine in an hour than Rey could handle in a week, and they do it without batting an eyelid.  
  
 The man before her deviates alarmingly from the norm. Rey lets her gaze linger on his two companions who, true to form, sit in silence, sipping on their serious drinks and tapping their serious emails into their serious business phones. Their hair, a shock of red and icy blonde respectively, is the brightest thing about them. Rey knows without asking that they would sneer at their colleague’s choice of beverage. She sighs, eternally perplexed at how fragile masculinity can be, but returns her focus to the screen.  
  
 “So it’s a large hot chocolate,” she reads, “extra whipped cream, two pumps of vanilla and three pumps of mocha, extra chocolate drizzle, and extra chocolate sprinkles.”  
  
 “Keep your voice down,” the man growls. At Rey’s raised eyebrow, he lets his snarl soften into something more contrite. “But yes.”  
  
 Rey nods, biting her tongue against the surprise that all that sugar hasn’t made him sweeter. She rattles off the price, watches him swipe his card, and then directs him to the pick-up counter. She’s secretly hoping she can take a copy of his receipt to provide evidence for the story she’s going to tell Finn and Poe later. Just in case, she memorises each step of the concoction as she pours, mixes, and sprinkles.  
  
 The man collects his drink with a nod of thanks and returns to his table. It’s just close enough that Rey can overhear the conversation that springs up.  
  
 “What in god’s name is that, Ren?” the red-headed man asks, wrinkling his nose. “It smells like someone bludgeoned Willy Wonka to death.”  
  
 The man – Ren – shrugs. “It seems the barista made a mistake.”  
  
 Rey’s mouth falls open in indignant shock. She had made the drink to his bizarre specifications, extra chocolate sprinkles and all. It wasn’t winning any dentists’ recommendations, but it was precisely what he ordered.  
  
 “You ought to complain about it,” the red-haired man said with a sniff.  
  
 “It’s not worth getting her fired over,” Ren replies, shaking his head. “It’s likely her first day.”  
  
 “And her last, if she can’t distinguish between a shot of espresso and a fucking _hot chocolate_.” The other man eyes his own drink as though Rey has managed to retroactively screw it up. “Honestly, they really must start implementing some kind of intelligence test for anyone who wants to serve the public.”  
  
 “She’s a barista, Hux, she’s not in government,” the woman says, shooting him a flat look over the top of her phone. “One mixed up drink is hardly the downfall of society.”  
  
 Rey’s pride stings. Being a barista might not require a degree or a fancy suit, but she works hard at her job – one of three – and she’s good at it.  
  
 When Ren looks up and catches her staring at him, Rey looks away on instinct and makes an effort not to listen in to the rest of their conversation. Why should she care what some rich, pretentious assholes think about her? She shouldn’t. She _doesn’t_.  
  
 Still, she scrubs the counter surfaces with more ferocity than three drops of spilled milk deserve.  
  
 Ren and his colleagues leave a few minutes later. Rey hears Ren mutter something, and then pretends not to notice how he shuffles over to the counter until he’s looming over it. For someone so tall ( _and,_ Rey has to admit, _well-built_ ), he looks ill-at-ease in his skin. He drops a twenty into the tip jar without making eye contact. Behind his waves of dark hair, Rey can see the tips of his ears burning red.  
  
 “Uh,” he mumbles, “sorry about…”  
  
 “It’s fine,” Rey says, fixing her customer service smile firmly in place. “It’s hardly the downfall of society.”  
  
 His dark eyes flash up to hers. Rey sees panic dart through them, before it’s shuttered away. He nods once and then leaves without another word. Rey flips him the bird – mentally, because there are security cameras aimed her way and she’s gotten in trouble for that before.  
  
 Ren returns the next day, cronies in tow. Rey straightens up behind the counter and readies herself for whatever condescension may be thrown her way. She’s already planning on spending her tips on a bottle of whiskey she’s been eyeing for awhile (too long, given how small and relatively cheap it is), and so be it if the day brings her another reason to get drunk.  
  
 “Let me go first,” Ren mutters, edging in ahead of his colleagues.  
  
 “Hi,” Rey says, hoping he notices how far her smile is from reaching her eyes. “What can I get for you today?”  
  
 Ren glances back at his companions and takes a deep breath. When he looks back at Rey, it’s with the doomed determination of a man about to throw himself off a cliff.  
  
 “I’ll take a large hot chocolate, extra whipped cream, two pumps of vanilla and three pumps of mocha, extra chocolate drizzle…” he sighs, “and extra chocolate sprinkles.”  
   
 Rey smiles at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos! They're very much appreciated :)  
> In this chapter: DrunkenMess!Rey, MorePatheticThanIntended!Ben, author wonders why she isn't more adept at writing drunk people given the unfortunate amount of real life practice.  
> Enjoy!

* * *

Ben groans as the intermittent knocking becomes a steady rhythm. He rolls over in bed, dragging the tangled sheets along with him, and gropes blindly for his phone. His knuckles catch the side of his bedside table and he curses. He curses louder at the sight of _04:03_.

_This had better be some kind of fucking emergency_ , he thinks as he pulls himself out of his sheets. Unless the earth is under attack, he’s going back to bed. Even if the earth is under attack, he’s probably going back to bed. Earth isn’t that great. Sleep, on the other hand…

Ben stumbles out of his bedroom and into the living area. He navigates around the dim outlines of his couch and bookcase, and narrowly avoids tripping over the case files he’d left by his favorite chair. All the while, someone hammers at his front door.

He doesn’t check who it is before twisting the locks and wrenching the door open. It might have been a stupid choice for anyone else, but he’s 6’3 and _pissed,_ so he’s happy to take his chances.

It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the bright glare of the corridor lights. His antagonism softens when he sees the young woman from down the hall standing in his doorway. Her name is Rey, he knows, but he feels guilty for this knowledge. It hadn’t been freely given; he’d accidentally gleaned it from one of the times they’d caught the same elevator. She’d smiled at him, but Ben wasn’t much for eye contact. The mail she held in her hands happened to fall within his line of averted sight.

Ben knows it’s ridiculous – absurd, really – that a thirty year old man should falter at the thought of talking to a girl. Still, every time he sees her he can’t do anything but return her bright smile with a brisk nod. Every wordless step he takes away from her resounds with a _WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS_ in his mind.

No, wait – he’s talked to her once. She often lugs machine parts back from God knows where, and he can sometimes hear the faint thuds of metal on metal drifting down their shared hallway. He once offered to help her carry some of the heavier parts, but she turned him down with such firm politeness that Ben spent three days worrying about unwitting misogyny.

He’s seen her around since then, of course, and finds himself unexpectedly charmed by how expressive she is. She scowls when the trash piles outside their building overflow onto the flowerbeds, grins and scrunches her nose at the dogs who strain their leashes, and laughs in loud, unabashed joy whenever she walks with her friends.

As Ben looks out at her now, at 04:05 on a Sunday morning, he feels a familiar warm rush.

She’s smart.

She’s beautiful.

She’s… completely fucking trashed.

Smudged makeup lines eyes that are redder and blearier than his. Despite being barefoot, she sways on the spot. Her high heels dangle from the straps wrapped around her left wrist. Ben almost winces to see the rubbed-raw state of her feet.

Her expression lights up when she realizes he’s opened the door, but her eyes can’t seem to actually focus on his face.

“I’m so sorry to wake you up!” Rey whispers in the loudest stage voice Ben has ever fucking heard. “I lost my home keys!”

Ben stares, bemused. He hadn’t had time to think of who the late night visitor would be, consumed by rage and sleepiness as he was, but now he knows that Rey wouldn’t have even featured in the top ten list of possibilities.

“I’d sleep outside,” she continues, blinking heavily, “but everything is not staying in one place, and I want to believe it’s the world but I know it’s probably me, because I drank…” She screws her eyes shut in thought so deep it looks painful. “I drank a whole fucking bunch.” She opens her eyes and the sorrow there catches in Ben’s throat. “Like, a _lot_. And I know we don’t know each other, but I don’t know _anyone_ here, and you seem really nice.”

Ben tries not to snort at that. He’s a giant of a man who dresses almost exclusively in black and honestly believes most people aren’t worth the effort it takes to smile. The general opinion of him in this apartment building ranges from suspicion to fear, based off the looks thrown his way from anyone unlucky enough to share an elevator with him. Anyone except Rey, that is.

Rey, who had smiled then and continues to smile now.

“So could I… maybe crash here tonight?” she asks, all bright eyes and lilting voice.

If it was anyone else, Ben would have said no. He doesn’t like letting other people into his home. His first reaction is honestly horror. It momentarily trumps the quiet knowledge that he would do anything this woman asked of him. But then that quiet knowledge gets insistently louder, just the way the knocking on his front door had, and Ben opens his mind to it with the same frustrated inevitability. This is _not_ how he thought their first conversation was going to go. Except for the way he’s kind of just standing there gormlessly. That bit is pretty much on par.

“Uh, sure,” he says, pushing himself into action. “Come on in.”

Rey yelps in gratitude and flings her arms around his neck. Ben holds himself unnaturally still, partly because he doesn’t want to take advantage of a drunk young woman, but also because _God_ , she smells exactly like he thought she would. If he ignores the small gusts of alcohol-spiked breath against his ear, he can focus on the floral scent daubed into the hollows of her throat.

But, no, that’s creepy. He shouldn’t be focusing on anything at all when Rey is in this state. He clears his throat and steps back, slowly enough to ensure she doesn’t stumble against him. He quashes the tiny, wistful thought that Rey could one day embrace him while not mind-numbingly wasted.

Oblivious, Rey releases him and wobbles past. Her heels and purse clatter to his floor. Ben sighs as he closes the door. The burst of brightness once he presses the light switches is unwelcome, but it’s better than Rey breaking something.

“Bathroom,” Rey announces from somewhere in his living room. Ben hears her totter away and close the door, and then, “Ow, fuck. Your bathroom is like mine but not. Why do you have a shelf? I don’t have a shelf. Should I have a shelf? I feel like I should have a shelf. That seems like something I should have.”

Amid Rey’s rambling, Ben stands frozen in his living room. The bizarre reality of the situation settles like a heavy weight on his shoulders. Is he supposed to offer her his bed? He almost whines at the thought. _He_ wants his bed. It’s soft and warm and restricted from people who might throw up in it. He could offer Rey a pile of sharp rocks and she, in her current state, wouldn’t know the difference. Plus, she might freak out if she wakes up in a stranger’s bed with no memory of the night before.

But then she might think him selfish if he hogs the bed for himself and leaves her on the slim couch.

There are too many variables, too many wrong assumptions, too many ways to fuck this up and make Rey hate him forever. Ben screws his eyes shut and stifles a groan. This is why he doesn’t fucking talk to anyone.

In the end, Rey makes the choice for him. She leaves the bathroom and heads straight for the couch. Before Ben can offer her any spare sheets, she’s thrown herself down and closed her eyes.

“If you could not kill me in my sleep,” she says, “that would be very cool of you.”

Ben laughs quietly. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He spends the next few minutes dragging out the spare bedding from his closet, unusually thankful for the guest etiquette his mother had drilled into him. He really ought to call her.

Once he’s draped the duvet over Rey, he retreats into his kitchen to pour a glass of water, which he leaves on the coffee table by the couch. Now Rey’s warm, she has her water, but there’s something missing. With a sigh that’s more resignation than annoyance, Ben lifts the wastepaper basket from beneath his desk and drops it by the couch. Rey cracks open an eye, moans, and then closes it again. She stifles a yawn as she snuggles deeper into the cushion.

“I’m sorry I broke your sleep,” she murmurs against it.

Ben doesn’t laugh, because it’s four in the goddamn morning and he wants his bed, but he does have to stop his lips from twitching.

“It’s okay,” he tells her.

She’s already snoring softly.

Ben runs a hand through his hair as he traipses back into his bedroom. He definitely isn’t thinking of what he’ll make them for breakfast tomorrow morning.

* * *

Rey’s gone when he wakes up.

Ben feels ridiculous for his pang of disappointment, and even more ridiculous at the spike in his mood once he notices that she left a note beside her empty glass of water.

_Hello,_

_My friend dropped off my keys. Once I’m not dying from mortification and/or a hangover, could I buy you an apology drink? Anything except margaritas._

_Thank you and sorry!_

_\- Rey (Apartment 316)_

Beneath her scrawl is a phone number.

If Ben grins to himself the whole time he’s making breakfast, well, there’s no one around to witness it.


	3. Chapter 3

 

* * *

  
 “Just go and ask him out already,” Poe laughs, drawing an eye-roll from Rey. “You’ve been staring at him ever since he sat down.”  
  
 “Right,” Rey says with a snort. “Go ask out a complete _stranger_. That sounds like something I’d do, doesn’t it? Except – no, wait, I think I’d rather set myself on fire.”  
  
 Even so, she can’t deny her not-so-covert interest in the man sitting across the coffee shop. Rey, sitting between Poe and Finn, has a perfect vantage point for watching him adjust the teapot, cup, and small jug of milk on his tray. They look adorably tiny in his large hands. It doesn’t seem to faze him, although it does contrast comically with the aura of intensity he gives off.  
  
 “Come on,” Poe says, cajoling her with those twinkling eyes of his. The bastard knows they could topple an empire. “I used to do it all the time.”  
  
 “Yeah, but _you’re_ …” Rey gestures at his face and then back at her own. “While I haven’t washed my hair in four days and this sweater is unravelling in six different places.”  
  
 “And yet you’re still gorgeous,” Poe sighs. “Amazing, isn’t it?”  
  
 Rey scoffs and hits him lightly on the arm. Still, she can’t say her cheeks don’t grow warm. If she could find a way to bottle Poe Dameron’s charm, she could conquer the world.  
  
 She looks back over to the man, a slow smile growing. “I guess I could –”  
  
 Oh.  
  
 Oh, no.  
  
 Horror chokes the rest of her words as she watches the unfolding scene. It’s like watching a car crash unfold in slow motion; she’s painfully aware but unable to do anything to stop it.  
  
 Finn speaks her name, confused, but Rey barely hears him.  
  
 “What is he _doing_?” she hisses, staring in horror at the man.  
  
 “Making his tea?” Finn asks. Rey knows without looking that he’s swapping a glance with Poe.  
  
 Rey shakes her head and pushes herself up from her chair. “No, I’m sorry, this is unacceptable.”  
  
 Frustrated twin groans sound from the table she’s rapidly leaving behind.  
  
 “Rey, don’t –”  
  
 “Come on, babe, it isn’t –”  
  
 Rey ploughs forward with the determination of one who must right a grievous wrong. And that’s kind of what she’s doing, except with tea.  
  
 The man looks up at her approach. Surprise flits over his face, before it settles into a pleased almost-smile. There’s still a wariness lingering in his eyes, as though he’s already questioning Rey’s motives for coming over, but he can’t quite hide his happiness at having her there.  
  
  “Hi,” Rey says brightly, before he can speak. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I noticed that you didn’t take your teabag out of the teacup before pouring milk in there.”  
  
 “I didn’t,” the man agrees slowly. His interest has been replaced by apprehensive confusion.  
  
 “That isn’t the way you make tea,” Rey informs him. Her polite smile strains when she notices that he _still_ hasn’t taken the teabag out.  
  
 The man follows her line of sight. He frowns, and then looks back up at her.  
  
 “You’re English, aren’t you?”  
  
 Rey puffs up with pride. “Yes, I am.”  
  
 “Ah, of course.” He lifts the cup to his lips but doesn’t drink, instead choosing to pin her in place with an intense gaze. “I forgot that the English invented tea.”  
  
 Rey’s smile falters. “Well, we didn’t, but –”  
  
 “No?” He frowns in exaggerated confusion. “And I suppose you’re _not_ the only tea drinkers in the world?”  
  
 “Not that either,” Rey admits through gritted teeth, understanding where he’s going with this, “but –”  
  
 “Then I don’t understand what makes you think I care about your opinion on how I take my tea.”  
  
 “I care because it’s an _abomination_!” Rey explodes. People are starting to stare, but she’s too focused on the man in front of her to care. “Everyone knows that the milk isn’t supposed to touch the teabag! _Everyone knows that_!”  
  
 Amusement breaks through the man’s haughtiness. It softens his intensity in a way that makes Rey temporarily forget her indignation.  
  
 “I’m drinking tea from a cup that can only be described as dainty,” the man says, angling the cup her way. “Do you think I care what _everyone knows_? Just let people enjoy things.”  
  
 Another protest forms on Rey’s lips, but she can’t bring herself to voice it. _Just let people enjoy things_. It’s a good rule of thumb. She’s being ridiculous, marching over here and demanding the man adhere to her arbitrary ideas like some kind of dictator (dicteator?). The reality of the situation floods in around her and stains her cheeks.  
  
 “You’re right,” she manages. The man quirks an eyebrow. Rey reflects on the chances of a lightning bolt striking her down, or the ground swallowing her up. She’d gladly choose either over the lengthening, awkward silence.  “You should drink your tea however you want. Sorry.”  
  
 She turns away, prepared to shuffle back to her exasperated friends, but a rattling distracts her. The man kicks out the chair opposite him and nods for her to sit down.  
  
 “Would you join me?”  
  
 The uncertainty he had hinted at during her first approach has gone, no doubt rendered unnecessary at the realisation that Rey is a complete nutcase. Rey looks from him to the chair and back again.  
  
 “Come on,” he says, a slight smile touching his lips. “Tell me what else I’m doing wrong.”  
  
 “Inviting me into another conversation, for one.” Still, Rey sits down, suddenly bashful. “Why aren’t you throwing your drink on me?”  
  
 “And waste my abomination?” The man huffs out a laugh and then shrugs. “I’ve never met anyone so passionate about tea before. It’s…”  
  
 “Endearing?” Rey hopes.  
  
 “I was going to say concerning, but sure.” He smiles. “Endearing.”  
  
 Rey considers it, and then decides she’s been called worse. She sticks out a hand.  
  
 “I’m Rey.”  
  
 “Ben.” He reaches out to envelop her hand in his. “Let me buy you some tea, and you can show me the ways of the leaf.”  
  
 Rey grins at the ridiculous turn of phrase. She nods in what she’s going to pretend is only mock-seriousness. “You need a teacher.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a cliché that English people have strong feelings about tea, but as an English person with strong feelings about tea, I will fight you.
> 
> I can't remember where I read this prompt. Apologies for that, and for turning "Person A is horrified that Person B adds milk to their tea with the teabag still in" into an exhaustion-fuelled, one-hour-time-frame ball of crack.
> 
> Thanks for reading and giving feedback! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos! Life is super stressful right now, but it makes me happy to know you enjoy these silly fluffballs I throw at you every so often.
> 
> This chapter, written in part in Osaka airport, is dedicated to the time my flight was indeed delayed for fourteen hours and I got a kickass hotel room. I even made a new friend in the line – although, unlike our two nerds, I went back to my hotel room alone, ate a fuckton of snacks I’d bought for the plane and marathonned Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt. Zero regrets.
> 
> Enjoy! <3

* * *

  
 Rey shuffles from one foot to the other. She’s at the front of a very disgruntled line of people, none of whom can be blamed for their aggravation. Airports are stressful enough places without news of a significant delay. The man at the desk in front of her, however, is stretching Rey’s understanding with his raised voice and aggressive stance.

 “A _fourteen hour delay_?” he demands of the attendant, who watches him with practiced calm. “That’s longer than the damn flight!”

 The attendant nods. “I understand, Sir, and I’m very sorry –”

 “Sorry doesn’t make the plane leave on time,” the man growls.

 That does it.

 Rey strides forward, dragging her carry-on luggage behind her. She ignores the pleas of another attendant to wait in the line, and comes to a stop next to the man.

 “Neither does being rude,” she tells him.

 He stares down at her – damn, he’s tall. Rey should have thought of that before barging in to chastise him, although she knows it wouldn’t really have made a difference. She’s been told she has a blind spot where self-preservation should be.

 “Ma’am,” the attendant says, turning her attention to Rey. “If you could please return to the line, you will be seen shortly.”

 Rey doesn’t move. The man’s consternation switches its focus back to the attendant.

 “I have somewhere I need to be,” he informs her. Frustration bites into each word.

 “Yeah, so do the rest of us,” Rey says. “Or did you think that anyone here is taking an eleven hour flight because they have nothing better to do?”

 The man seems bent on ignoring Rey. “I’m a frequent First Class flyer –”

 Rey snorts. “Another thing that doesn’t make airplanes depart on time –”

 “So trust me, you don’t want to lose my business.”

 The attendant’s composure is a thing of beauty.

 “Sir, I promise you we are doing everything we can to make this up to you. All passengers will receive a complimentary stay in a nearby hotel, as well as vouchers for two meals and future travels.”

 Rey’s choice to defend the honor of airline staff everywhere vanishes in the interest of how much free shit she can get from them. She sidles away from the angry man’s side, hoping that without her interference the conversation can wrap itself up and Rey can be that much closer to lounging in a hotel room. She’d take anything over the unpleasant atmosphere of the airport.

 The man seems to think the same way. He sighs as though doing so will release all of his frustration, and then hands over his passport without a word.

 Rey’s probably imagining the sense of satisfaction coming from the attendant. It’s probably just her own feelings at wearing this asshole down. She suppresses a smirk as the man nods at the attendant and then sweeps away, yanking his luggage behind him.  
  


* * *

  
 Rey gives it half an hour before making her way to the hotel shuttlebus. It gives her time to grab a drink in a nearby bar and message Finn about her change in plans. He won’t be awake yet thanks to the time difference, but Rey still feels better.

 She takes the elevator down to the ground floor and scans for Bay 7, where the shuttlebus will arrive. It’s easy enough to find, if only because of the crowd already gathered there. Rey sighs and looks at the schedule. The next arrival is in five minutes. Not too bad.

 She joins the throng. She leans against her suitcase and imagines the shower she’s going to take in her hotel room. Maybe there’ll even be a bath. She can relax every muscle that’s become tense in the last two hours in hot, soapy bliss.

 Rey doesn’t pay much attention to the sound of rolling luggage and footsteps coming to a stop behind her. At least, not until she hears a dry chuckle.

 “Here to champion some more stewardesses?”

 Rey groans. The tone might be less angry but she still recognizes the voice. She turns around, ready to tear into the asshole from the check-in desk, but pauses in surprise. His tone isn’t the only thing that’s changed. His jacket is undone, his tie has vanished, and his shirt is no longer tucked in. He still looks good – maybe even better than before. The bastard. The biggest change, though, is the slight smile on his face. Rey wonders if he’d taken advantage of an airport bar, too.

 “They’re called flight attendants,” she informs him once the silence has stretched on for too long.

 “My mistake,” the man says, inclining his head. Rey glares at him. His returning expression is almost contrite. “I really _do_ have somewhere important to be.”

 Rey nods. “Yeah, just like the rest of us.”

 “ _I mean_ ,” the man grinds out, “I wasn’t just saying that to be a dick. I’m not usually…”

 He considers the denial resting on his tongue and seems to think better of it. Rey snorts; she appreciates his honesty if nothing else.

 “It’s been a really fucking stressful day,” he settles on saying.

 Rey considers his explanation – _not_ an apology, but as close as she senses this man is capable of giving – and then, once again, looks at his clothes.

 “Business meeting?” she guesses.

 The man nods and blows a breath out from between his pursed lips. “A big one.”

 “No one can blame you for a delayed flight,” Rey says. She isn’t sure why she’s consoling him, expect for the fact that he’s right. It has been a really fucking stressful day. Maybe she could stand to be a little kinder.

 He gives a humourless laugh. “My boss is a big believer in accountability.  He’ll blame me for not sprouting wings and flying back myself.”

 “Ah.”

 “Yeah.” He glances at her. “Who’s waiting for you on the other end?”

 “My best friends.” Rey grins, just as she’s been doing ever since Finn and Poe announced their big news. “They just got engaged.”

 “To each other?”

 Rey laughs. “Yes, to each other.” She pauses and then gives him a slight smirk. “One of them is a pilot. I get a little defensive over airline staff.”

 The man ignores the barb to give one of his own. “They couldn’t hook you up with tickets to a plane that isn’t fourteen hours behind schedule?”

 Before Rey can retort, their shuttlebus pulls up. The driver hops down and pulls out a short list from his pocket.

 “Rey Kenobi?” he reads in accented English.

 Rey steps forward with a smile. The driver nods at her. Rey loiters rather than climb on board. It’s out of politeness, and not out of a desire to hear her companion’s name. Not that at all.

 Finally, the man answers to “Ben Solo?” and gestures for Rey to go on ahead of him.

 “Ben Solo, huh?” she asks, plonking herself down on an aisle seat.

 Ben shrugs and sits across the way from her. He has to hunch down in his seat and pull his legs up to avoid discomfort.

“Seems so,” he replies, and pulls out his phone. “That’s who all these angry emails are addressed to, anyway.”

 Rey makes a sympathetic noise. Ben glances up from his screen, and then quickly back down again when he sees Rey watching him.

 “Would you be _Miss_ Rey Kenobi?” he asks.

 “I would,” she answers, feeling weirdly coy.

 “Hm,” is all he says in return.

 Rey tries not to scowl. So much for that game. Well, whatever. Stress or no, he was still an asshole to the flight attendant. She shouldn’t be flirting with him.

 Ben doesn’t look up from his emails for the rest of the mercifully short journey. Rey tries not to care.

 He trails after her into the lobby of the hotel. It’s far nicer than Rey had expected, and she forgets her annoyance with the man looming over her. There’s a queue of people waiting for the front desk. Rey recognizes some of them from her line at the airport. She joins the tail-end, fantasizing about the bath and the soft bed she hopes is waiting for her.

 “There,” Ben announces. He slips his phone into his bag and turns to Rey. “Everything replied to. That should shut everyone up for the next couple of hours.”

 Rey only nods, as non-committal as he had been a few minutes before. Her eyes are fixed on the front desk. She’s so close to getting in that bathtub that she can practically feel the bubbles on her skin.

 “We’ve got a long time to kill in this place,” Ben muses.

 “Yep.”

 “Fourteen hours.”

 “Closer to ten,” Rey corrects airily.  She inspects her passport as though she hasn’t seen it a thousand times before. “What with wait times and security and all that.”

 “Still, though, ten hours.”

 Rey can feel Ben watching her. He seems to be gearing up to say something. Rey lets him stew. She’s enjoying this.

 “Let me take you to dinner,” he says after a long moment.

 Rey raises her eyebrows at him.

 “We both have free dinner vouchers,” she points out.

 “True,” he allows, “but asking if you’d let me sit with you while you eat dinner doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

 Rey snorts in amusement. Ben’s lips lift in response. It’s a far better sight than him ranting at a flight attendant, Rey will give him that.

 She supposes one meal in the hotel restaurant wouldn’t hurt. She can get her verbal sparring practice in. It would break up the monotony of the long wait ahead. She’s had worse company.

 She _wants_ to.

 It’s this last justification more than the others that does the trick.

 “Alright,” she says with a shrug. “Let me get my key and drop my stuff off in my room first.”

 Ben nods. His smile threatens to grow wider in what looks like an act of defiance given his otherwise casual manner.

 “It’s a date.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this one. All my love to those studying liberal arts (I'm a graduate myself!)
> 
> Still riding high from the D23 bts peek of The Last Jedi yesterday. It's been awhile since I updated, but thanks for your comments, kudos, and bookmarks! Hope you enjoy <3

* * *

_The Glass Sphere_ , the title card reads.

Ben tilts his head one way. The object in front of him is made of glass, yes. He tilts his head the other way. The object is also a sphere. Right on both counts. Quite what it’s doing on a plinth in a gallery is where he starts to lose track of everything, though. Since when were oversized marbles anything other than pretty paperweights?

Goddamn it, he doesn’t understand modern art.

He looks around, but the small room is empty. There’s no one he can ask to explain it to him. The small title card attached to the plinth doesn’t offer any extra information.

Ben looks back to the glass ball – sorry, _sphere_ – and sighs. He should’ve stuck with the galleries he knew. Give him overly symbolic Renaissance paintings any day. At least there’s meaning in the shields and flowers and creepy baby Jesuses with inexplicable six packs.

As a final insult, there’s a fine coating of dust on the top of the sphere. Does no one even come here? It’s not like the dust is hard to see, what with the way the spotlight bursts down onto it.

Ben grumbles as he wriggles his hand up into the sleeve of his jacket and reaches out to swipe the dust away.

_The Glass Sphere_ falls to the ground and shatters.

Ben stares at it.

Shit.

_Shit!_

He falls to his knees and tries to scoop up the pieces. Jagged edges slice into his fingertips, obviously, because he’s a fucking moron who didn’t stop to think about what he was doing. Ben hisses and sucks his fingers into his mouth. With the other hand, he carefully lifts the larger pieces and arranges them back onto the plinth.

The bottom of the sphere is still kind of intact. Ben tries to fit the bigger shards together on top of it, like a jigsaw puzzle it’s probably going to cost him thousands of dollars to complete. A quick look around tells him that there are no security cameras facing _The Glass Sphere_ directly, so he might be in luck there.

Less lucky are the growing murmur of voices heading his way. Panicked, Ben considers running. Before he can, a young woman steps into the room. Her eyes fix immediately on the mess Ben created. Her brow furrows and her lips purse, but she doesn’t speak. Instead, she moves to stand next to a now-shaking Ben.

From the corner of his eye, he sees her scan the broken pieces, his bleeding fingers, and his flustered features. Her mouth quirks up in amusement, just as other people wander into the room behind her.

“This is actually one of my favourite pieces,” the woman says, as though she and Ben have been having a conversation all this time. “Do you see how the artist subverts our expectations through the name _The Glass Sphere_? It’s as though he’s presenting an idealisation, or an expectation. Or perhaps the name is meant to be evocative to a front that he feels he must project.”

Ben doesn’t have a clue what she’s talking about, and he has more than an inkling that she doesn’t either, but her British accent lends her some credibility. She glances at him, eyebrows raised, and silently urges him to play along.

“I… uh, yeah, definitely,” Ben says. He’s never been great at improv. “I like the…anti-utilitarianism.”

It’s a word he picked out of a memory of studying Oscar Wilde, long ago when he thought literature might be his calling. He’s forgotten what the word means, to be honest, but it sounds impressive and the woman smiles and nods in encouragement.

Ben’s mouth goes dry. She’s quite pretty, he can see now, with fine features and dark hair twisted back into an elegant knot. He fixes his attention back on the lie they’re both crafting together, just as she speaks again.

“Can you see the haphazard placing of the shards of glass which clearly don’t slot together, despite how hard the artist tried?” She sends him a wry side-glance, meant for his eyes alone, and then returns to her scholarly tone. “Doesn’t that just speak to the pressures of trying to mould yourself into something you’re not?”

“It does.” He pauses, and then decides he can’t help himself. “And the blood on the glass is very realistic.”

The woman covers her snort of amusement with a cough.

“Yes,” she agrees. “A literal representation of the suffering the artist inflicts and endures in his quest for conformity, no doubt. I heard the artist supplied the gallery with a vial of his own blood, which an attendant reapplies periodically.”

Ben tries not to grin. His fingers hurt and his heart’s still beating out of his chest, but he’s enjoying this.

“His own blood,” he muses. “Really.”

“So the rumours go.” The woman flicks another glance at him. “However, I don’t know how the artist conceived the piece in the first place. I read that the original intention was an ordinary, unbroken glass sphere. ”

Ben clears his throat. “From what I’ve heard, the artist thought that the glass had some dust on it, so he reached out to clean it away and accidentally knocked it over.”

The woman sends him a flat look of disbelief.

“It’s a shame he didn’t have a lot of _Don’t Touch_ signs,” she says, “like the ones posted all over the gallery here.”

“He probably wouldn’t have paid attention to them anyway. Free spirit, and all.”

The woman grins at him. She has a beautiful smile, Ben decides. Behind them, the group that had gathered to listen to the pseudo-analysis disperses. Once the last of their footsteps have faded, Ben lets out a breath and turns to his saviour.

“I’m Ben,” he says, sort of without meaning to. He should be thanking her or apologising or trying to explain, rather than rope her into further interactions with him.

She doesn’t seem to care.

“Nice to meet you, Ben.” She’s quieter now, her accent less cut. “I’m Rey.”

“Rey,” Ben repeats with a slight smile. The smile fades as he gestures towards the plinth – carefully, because he’s sure as fuck not picking up any more shards of glass. “Thank you.”

Rey’s nose wrinkles in amusement. “You’re welcome. It was quite fun, wasn’t it?”

“As long as no one ever finds out that _The Glass Sphere_ is supposed to be taken literally, sure.” He clears his throat, feeling awkward now that they’re not performing for an audience. “So, you know a lot about modern art?”

“Nah, I just know a lot of fancy words. I work as a note-taker for the university over in Tuanul. You know, for the students who aren’t able to write for themselves?” Rey chuckles. “Thank God for liberal arts degrees.”

“Thank God,” Ben agrees, for different reasons. He clears his throat. “I’m sure there are more things I could accidentally ruin if you want to put all those fancy words to use?”

Rey laughs. “Lead the way.”

She offers her arm out. After a hesitation, Ben loops his own arm through it. It’s probably just more play-acting at being art critics, but he can’t bring himself to care. She’s warm against his side.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting back into the hang of writing after an upheavally last couple of months. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

 

“Rey, I need to see you in my office.”

Rey bit her lip at the stern voice on the other end of the line. The hierarchy was fairly loose at Hope House, the non-profit organisation ran by Leia Organa, but Ben Solo was technically Rey’s boss, and Rey had technically been fifteen minutes late this morning.

“I’ll be right in,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt.

Ben hung up without another word.

Rey stared at the receiver. Her stomach was in knots at the prospect of being scolded. She tried to calm herself. Nothing catastrophic had happened during the fifteen – _twenty_ – minutes she had been late. And, alright, perhaps it had been a little longer, but what was twenty-five minutes, in the grand scheme of things? Even if she had somehow been thirty minutes late (and, Rey conceded, thanks to a slow-moving elevator, that was entirely possible), her otherwise flawless punctuality should speak for itself.

She half-stormed into Ben’s office, prepared to lay out a case of how she was the greatest employee that Hope House had ever seen, and that firing her would be Ben Solo’s biggest mistake.

(Yes, even bigger than all of those choices he had made while working at Snoke’s firm. No one spoke about Ben’s past in the office, but everyone knew the things he had done. It wasn’t any wonder he so often refused to look people in the eye.)

“Close the door, Rey,” Ben said, before Rey could launch into her speech.

The wind slightly taken out of her sails, Rey complied. As soon as the door clicked, she turned and strode over to Ben’s desk. Unlike the other managers, Ben had no personal effects littering his small space. The only decoration was a plant Rey had gifted him for Easter. It seemed to still be alive through sheer force of will, since Rey had never seen Ben water it.

“You used to work at a laundry service,” Ben said with his usual bluntness. He gestured to his chest. “How do I get this stain out in the next fifteen minutes?”

Rey blinked. She had mentioned her brief stint at The Laundry Basket as part of some tipsy anecdote at last year’s Christmas party. Ben, who had made it clear that he was only there on the orders of his boss-slash-mother, sat at the far end of the table, scowling and refusing to join in with everyone else’s raucous laughter. Rey had felt slighted at the time, but she’d calmed down at Poe’s assurances that Ben had fulfilled his yearly quota of humanity by agreeing to work at Hope House, and that any further positive reaction from him would only be a sign of the end of days.

“And you don’t want to bring on the end of days, do you, Rey?” Poe had asked, raising his eyebrows.

They drank to avoiding the apocalypse, and Rey had forgotten any offense taken. Besides, she knew for a fact that her anecdote had been _hilarious_.

So hilarious, apparently, that it had stuck in Ben’s mind all this time later.

 Now that Rey focused, she saw the dark coffee stain spreading over Ben’s white shirt. Some of it could be covered by a blazer jacket, if not for the fact that it was mid-July and they didn’t have the budget to run aircon in all the rooms. Ben had been the first to offer to sacrifice his usage, and hadn’t touched the remote since. Rey might have suggested he wear a tie to draw attention away, except Leia had a strict no-ties policy to promote a more casual work environment.

Rey didn’t voice any of this, because Ben already knew it all. She saw the faint tinge of a blush on his cheeks and the red tips of his ears poking through his hair, and she knew that it had already taken all of his pride to call her in and ask for her help. If it hadn’t been for the meeting he was supposed to take in fifteen minutes, he would have sat there in a coffee-scented shirt for the rest of the day. He would have been soggy and un-caffeinated and an absolute _nightmare_ , but he wouldn’t have asked for help.

A strange fondness stole over Rey. Ben Solo was an unpleasant person, but he would not risk jeopardizing the charity his mother had poured so much time and love into. Even if it did mean letting his assistant know that he was a lowly mortal whose coffee sometimes missed his mouth.

“Alright,” Rey said with a nod. “Take off your shirt.”

“ _What?_ ”


End file.
